For the Love of God
by Dandelionwine29
Summary: After a difficult case, Sherlock is asleep and John must entertain himself. Until Sherlock decides to help.


John lies in the soft darkness of the bedroom and tries to slow his breathing. The night had ended with an exhilarating chase across the city starting at the crime scene at the Tate Modern, an art thief apprehended and mountains of paperwork back at Scotland Yard. By the time John and Sherlock reached home, it was all John could do to force a cup of tea and a piece of toast into an exhausted consulting detective before Sherlock stripped and fell unconscious into his bed. _Their _bed now. John finds that he enjoys sleeping in Sherlock's room (after some questionable experiments had been removed); the bed is bigger, the mattress plusher and the sheets softer.

John is presently appreciating the high thread-count of the sheets as he turns over. He is still running on adrenaline, his mind racing and his sinews singing. Even the barest brush of the soft cotton bedclothes has his oversensitive skin burning. It has been a long week of unraveling the complicated threads of the art heist case, with little time for any comforts. He can hear Sherlock breathing deeply and evenly on the other side of the bed, dead to the world.

Trying to relax, John closes his eyes and replays the events of the last few days in his mind. Sherlock's expression when he had figured out the drop-off point for the stolen sculpture had been incandescent, and John smiles remembering his joy. He loves seeing Sherlock in his element, crouched down over a footprint in the mud, collecting evidence to take to the lab, his slim suit trousers stretched over his muscular thighs and arse…

A bloom of heat unfurls in John's groin and he shifts restlessly. He turns on his back, and trails his hand down his chest, feeling his rapidly increasing heartbeat. He is too hot, sweat prickling his skin even as his hair stands on end and gooseflesh spreads across his body. With a shiver and sigh, he opens his eyes and can make out his erection tenting the sheets in the dim.

To his left, Sherlock is facing away from John and the door, his long pale back moving slightly with his breath, and the enticing dip of his hip disappearing beneath the edge of the sheet. John longs to run his fingers over each of the vertebrae as his counts them. As he studies his lover, John's hand continues to run over his chest and stomach, and eventually finds its way to the ridge of his hip, mirroring where John aches to touch Sherlock. Realizing where this is headed, John takes another deep breath and tries to calm himself.

_Oh what the hell, it will help me sleep _he thinks and he closes his hand around himself beneath the sheet.

He bites back a groan, which escapes as a soft sigh. He moves slowly at first, teasing himself with feather-light fingertips over the length of his shaft, tracing the throbbing veins on the underside. He shivers at the sensation, feeling giddy and decadent touching himself with Sherlock right there beside him. Tightening his grip, John strokes harder, reveling in the feeling of the soft hot skin moving over the underlying firmness. His breathing hitches in his chest as he brings his palm over the head of his cock, feeling the foreskin retracting over the wet tip. John pauses for a moment and reaches into the bedside drawer to get the lube. _Might as well do this properly. _His newly-slicked palm returns to his waiting cock and he begins pulling as quickly as he dares, craving the stimulation but not wanting to disturb Sherlock.

The lube has dripped down the shaft of his cock on to his balls, which John now fondles with his other hand. As he rolls his testicles gently, he slips his middle finger underneath and massages, his toes curling at the sensation. Stretching even further, he inhales sharply and bites his lip as the tip of his finger brushes the edge of his puckered hole.

Overcome with sudden heat, he carefully lifts the sheet away from his flushed body, and reaches again for the lube. The combination of the cool night air and the cool wet fingers once again at his hole has John arching his hips, and thrusting hard into the slickness of his fist.

John circles his entrance with one finger, feeling his body tense and then relax in anticipation. The hand on his cock stills, as he focuses his attention lower. He presses in gently, and his body slowly shifts from rejecting the intrusion to trying to pull him closer as he works his finger in and out, going deeper with each thrust. His stomach flutters as he thinks of the man next to him, still sleeping peacefully, unaware. If Sherlock were to turn over and wake up, John would not even have time to tidy up and pretend he wasn't touching himself. Sherlock would see John like this, would arch an eyebrow and smirk, would possibly offer a hand. Or a mouth. Or a cock. _Oh._ Adding another finger and then another, John grinds himself down onto his hand, enjoying the slight burn as he stretches to accommodate the girth, the fullness that is both overwhelming and not nearly enough.

He imagines they are Sherlock's long fingers pushing into him, wrapping around him, and he can _almost_ reach his prostate, he can feel his pulse beating strong inside him as he shoves his fingers into himself and himself into his fist, and lazy drops of pre-come leak over the dark head. His breathing is much too loud, growing harsher as his pleasure builds, and he chokes back the moans in his throat. Beads of sweat stand out on his temples and darken his hair, and his feet push into the mattress as he tries to control the increasingly frantic bucking of his hips as he barrels toward his finish.

Sherlock shifts in his sleep and John freezes, his body trembling and his breath hitching because Sherlock is _right there, _and John is _so close_.

Fingers in arse, fist around cock, John had almost forgotten where he was and that he wasn't alone.

John's eyes fly open and he carefully turns his head to look at Sherlock, who shifts again and rolls from his side to lie on his back. Sherlock's curls are spread in a tangled halo around his pale face, and his eyes are still closed, his long eyelashes almost touching his cheeks. His mouth is slightly parted, his lips full. John is often amazed at how beautiful he finds this man, and how he found this beautiful man; seeing Sherlock spread out on the bed illuminated by the faint street-light from the window stops John's heart for a moment. Sherlock breathes in deeply, exhaling a low, deep moan. This proves to be the catalyst needed for an explosive reaction: John feels a bolt of lust run through his body and he grows impossibly harder. His hand instinctively squeezes his cock, his fingers press more deeply into him, and within the space of a breath John is coming hard silently, head pressed into the pillow, back arching as he spurts over his hand and stomach, his hole rhythmically clenching around his fingers. Sherlock continues to sleep, utterly oblivious.

John's breath comes in wracking almost-sobs and his heart thunders in his chest. His legs are shaking as he slowly pulls his fingers out of himself, trying not to groan as little tendrils of pleasure continue to uncoil within him.

_Bloody hell. How is he still asleep? Oh my god._

Using the tissues on the bedside table John cleans himself up as his body calms and his eyes close, exhaustion catching up with him at last.

John can feel the early morning all around him in the still air and the faint light. His limbs are warm and sore in a good way from all of his exertions outside and inside the bedroom last night. Sherlock is still sleeping, John can hear his even breathing and feel his body's heat. _Good, he needs the rest._

Gingerly, John sits up in bed and stretches his shoulders and back. He pads to the bathroom for a piss, stopping to look at his face in the mirror. Probably could use a few more hours of sleep if he can manage it.

John returns to the bedroom, glancing at Sherlock still spread on his back, now taking up even more room in the bed, looking pale and vulnerable in the weak light. John eases himself under the sheet once again, fully intending to sleep a little longer. Before his head even hits the pillow, long arms have wrapped around him and a very warm, very bare body is pressed against him. Something else very warm and very hard is pressing against his hip, but before he can appreciate the sensation, he is being flipped over and positively devoured.

Sherlock's mouth is hot and wet and open against his and John is groaning and pressing in to him before his brain has even registered what is happening. Sherlock is clutching at John's back, running his short nails down over his shoulder blades, caressing his sides and then palming his arse, grinding his hips into John's. John kisses Sherlock, pulling at his full bottom lip with his teeth, and running his right hand over Sherlock's biceps and up into his messy curls. Pulling his hair to adjust the angle of their kiss, John dips his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, running it along the edges of his lips and then sucking the tip of Sherlock's tongue into his own mouth. The resulting whimper goes straight to John's groin, and he presses his now fully-hard cock against Sherlock's. The whimper transforms into a luxurious moan as Sherlock arches into the sensation. John shudders as he takes the opportunity to kiss down Sherlock's long neck and collarbone. _He isn't usually so loud or so forward; I wonder what's gotten in to him? Not that I'm complaining…_

As if reading John's thoughts, Sherlock pushes him onto his back again, and then rolls on top of him, settling between his thighs. His eyes still closed, Sherlock resumes his plundering of John's mouth; long, deep kisses that melt and blur into the next and leave John dizzy and gasping for breath. Sherlock reaches up with one hand and wraps his long fingers around both of John's wrists. When Sherlock pins John's hands and arms to the pillow above his head, John groans loudly, reveling in the feeling of being completely possessed and surrounded. He brings his legs up and wraps them around Sherlock's backside, pulling him even closer, and begins to rock their hips together in a slow, comfortable rhythm that has bright points of pleasure bursting behind his eyes.

As the heat between them builds, Sherlock breaks their latest kiss to tuck his face into the space between John's neck and shoulder, panting harshly and moaning against John's damp skin. He releases his hold on John's wrists to grip his thighs as he shifts his body lower and closer. Understanding his intentions, John angles his hips upward to grant Sherlock better access, feeling the hot throbbing tip of an extremely eager cock gently pressing at his entrance, still slick and ready from his fingers. John pushes his hips up while he pulls Sherlock tighter against him, and they are connected in one smooth motion.

This seems to come as a surprise to Sherlock, whose whole body stiffens as a strangled yelp emerges from his mouth, which is still hidden at John's throat. John presses his cheek into the soft dark curls, and breathes in the smoky scent of the city at night that always seems to cling to the man inside him.

John chuckles softly as he begins to move, but the laugh is quickly overwhelmed by a choked moan as Sherlock begins to thrust into him with uncharacteristic abandon. He can't seem to stop running his hands over every inch of John that he can reach, caressing his thighs and sides and arms on his way to cradling John's face before he works his way back down. Sherlock's breath stutters out of him, flowing over John's oversensitive skin in electric waves as he cries out with each long thrust.

Sherlock is still pressed flush against John's upper body, and his taut stomach massages John's cock deliciously with each movement. John squeezes his eyes shut against all of the sensations. He feels full and open and hot, and _used, wanted, owned_.

The heady smell of the sweat of their bodies, the feel of hard muscle moving under soft skin where John touches Sherlock's back, and the breathy vocalizations growing louder and more desperate sounding by the moment flood his senses all at once, and suddenly John is tipping over the edge, the visceral thrill of climax bowing his back as he shouts and spills, his body clenching around Sherlock.

Pulse thrumming and body trembling in the aftershocks of his orgasm, John feels Sherlock tense and clutch at his shoulders, his hips. After three more abrupt thrusts, Sherlock shudders through his release, his debauched moan muffled against John's neck as he bites down and then relaxes on top of John.

"That. Was. Amazing," gasps John, as he strokes the detective's back.

Sherlock snores.

John stares.

Sherlock snorts, and rolls over onto his back, chest rising and falling as his breathing returns to normal.

John stares some more. His mouth drops open.

_Oh my god. He can't have just fallen asleep. Or was he asleep the whole time?! _

A giggle bubbles up from John's chest, and he clamps a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. As if after all that, this would be the one thing to wake Sherlock. After a case, he had been known to sleep for hours through all kinds of noise and disruptions, and it seemed this time was no different. Well, definitely different for John. A very sexy different.

Still shaking with suppressed laughter, John carefully climbs out of the bed, and gathers some fresh clothes from the dresser. He tucks the sheet around Sherlock and plants a soft kiss on his forehead as he heads to the bathroom for a shower. Sherlock mutters something in his sleep that sounds vaguely like a chemical equation and rolls over onto his side.

Hours later, John is sitting at the desk with his laptop trying to type up the art heist case. He needs a catchy title, though he knows Sherlock will scoff at anything he comes up with and proceed to point out all of the dramatic inaccuracies in his account. John suspects Sherlock will have plenty to say about the description of his reaction upon retrieving the stolen piece of art, a human skull covered in platinum and diamonds. Sherlock's eyes had lit up the instant he laid eyes on it, and as he examined it under a street-light, he told John that the skull had originally belonged to a European male who lived between 1720 and 1810 and ate a diet consisting largely of deer meat and root vegetables… and John had worried for a moment that the skull already on their mantle was going to get a twice-stolen shiny new friend. So far all of the titles John has thought of sound like _Indiana Jones_ movies.

Just as he's about to get up and make himself another cup of tea, he hears rustling from the bedroom. A moment later, a sleep rumpled Sherlock Holmes steps through the door, tying the belt of his blue silk dressing gown and then rubbing his eyes.

When he sees John his face softens into a small smile and he pads over to look at the laptop screen. As his eyes scan the text, he wraps his arms around John's shoulders and kisses him on the side of the neck.

"I had the strangest dream…" he mumbles, and then his eyes land on the purpling mouth-shaped bruise peeking out from the neck of John's t-shirt.

John turns his head, with a very satisfied grin on his face. "I'm sure you did. Why don't you tell me all about it?"

Sherlock shoots him a shocked look, and immediately grabs the laptop and begins researching sleep-sex and explaining how he is designing a new experiment.

"There are so many factors to consider, John. Environment, temperature, pheromones, fatigue vs. libido …" he trails off as he opens a spreadsheet and begins typing furiously.

John is sure he will approve of this experiment.


End file.
